Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(60)
“Wouldn’t you?” Luk?a asked. “If it had been your wife?”
“They never gave me that choice,” Harvath admitted, seeing an opportunity—through his pain—to hopefully secure more cooperation from the man. “They murdered my wife right in front of me and forced me to watch.”
The truck driver became indignant. “Animals,” he spat. “You see why we hate them? They have always been like this. They are absolute animals.”
Harvath appreciated the man’s fury. He needed the rest of the story, though. “What, specifically, did they ask you, Antanas—and what exactly did you tell them?”
“As you said, I told them everything. Where I picked you up. Where I dropped you off. How many of you there were. What, if any, equipment I could identify. How we communicated. What, if any, discussions of yours I overheard. And then, where I picked you up later that night and where I dropped you off before I left Kaliningrad and crossed back into Lithuania.”
“I assume they also asked how we were even connected in the first place.”
The truck driver nodded. “The man had lots of questions about that. He accused me, repeatedly, of working for the CIA. This was after I had told him everything else about that day. No matter what I said, he still wasn’t satisfied. He started talking about my wife again, explaining in disgusting detail what they were going to do to her. He even threatened to go after my grandchildren. Animals.”
“So, what did you tell him?”
“The truth. That I was working for the VSD.”
“Did you tell him who, at State Security you were working for?”
“Of course,” Luk?a replied. “He demanded it. I had no choice.”
“I understand,” Harvath said, and he meant it. “What name did you give him?”
“The only name I had—Filip Landsbergis.”
“Did you tell Landsbergis about what happened?”
The truck driver lowered his eyes. “No.”
“Why not?” asked Harvath.
“Because they told me that if I did, they would kill my entire family and his.”
CHAPTER 27
JULLOUVILLE-LES-PINS
FRANCE
Restaurant La Promenade was a short drive from Paul Aubertin’s house and had a fabulous view. From it, he could look out onto the Granville rocks and the Chausey archipelago.
La Promenade was a wonderful family restaurant with a menu du marché that changed daily. Today, they were offering pan-fried solettes with mashed potatoes, basil, and asparagus. Aubertin ordered a bottle of Sancerre to go along with it and as he basked in the 1930s Belle Epoque setting, he tried to make sense of his project.
True to his word, Trang had allowed him to run everything the way he had wanted, and with no strings attached.
As he had been taught back in Belfast, he had taken his time and had done his research.
He hadn’t planned on getting his hands dirty on this one, at least not right out of the gate, but his trip to Norway had been unavoidable. It was too good a lead, too rich with potential intelligence to leave to anyone else.
He had seen some tough, crusty old bastards in his day, but Carl Pedersen of the Norwegian Intelligence Service took the prize. Jesus, could he withstand a beating. And to be fair, not just a beating, but some of the worst torture Aubertin could put on him. Whoever this Scot Harvath was, he hoped he knew what a loyal friend he’d had in Pedersen. Right until the end.
But as nobly as the Norwegian had resisted, as bitterly as he had fought back the pain, it was all for naught. No one came to rescue him and Aubertin got what he wanted eventually. Though he had told the NIS man repeatedly that it would be easier if he would just cooperate, Pedersen had been quite stubborn.
With the information he had accessed, Aubertin had put together a dossier and then had gone searching for Harvath.
Aubertin didn’t like operating in America—not if he didn’t have to. Their relationship with Great Britain’s law enforcement and intelligence agencies was too tight. Instead, he had hoped to pick up a lead on Harvath from Europe. The information broker he went to for these things hadn’t disappointed him. Though it had cost a small fortune, the investment had been worth it.
From what he got from Pedersen, it was a quick jump to the next rung on the ladder. As soon as his information broker secured Harvath’s credit card information, Aubertin began tracking all of it, along with his cell phone.
The usage was spotty, but it had put him squarely in the Florida Keys—first at an exclusive resort called Little Palm Island and then in Key West.
Aubertin had compiled a list of accomplished contract killers. The decision he needed to make was who to set loose first. More important, who could get the job done and not be a pain in the ass to kill once it was all over.
He had decided to offer it to a Belgian he had worked with in the Foreign Legion. The man was very competent. But more important, Aubertin knew what his weak points were, knew where he lived, and knew how to get to him after the job was complete.
The man had been given a handful of days to conduct his surveillance and decide on the time and place to eliminate the target.
Based on their communications, it should have happened three days ago. There had been no word from the Belgian since. Considering the dangers inherent in their line of work, Aubertin had to assume the worst.